


Whispers of the goddess

by DAfan7711



Series: Dragon Age - Short stories, Vignettes [14]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Altar of Mythal, Dragons, F/F, Shapeshifting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-17
Updated: 2017-03-17
Packaged: 2018-10-06 11:01:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10333199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DAfan7711/pseuds/DAfan7711
Summary: After drinking from the Well of Sorrows, mage Inquisitor Ayania Lavellan travels to the Altar of Mythal to speak with the goddess herself and beg for help to save the world.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [8bitavery](https://archiveofourown.org/users/8bitavery/gifts).



> A gift for [8bitavery](http://archiveofourown.org/users/8bitavery) for the [Wintersend Exchange 2017](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/wintersend2017). Ayania Lavellan’s trip to Mythal’s altar follows shortly after her love’s story, [Josephine: A Bard’s Tale](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9607745).

The vast ocean of whispers were shouts in Ayania Lavellan’s head. Each a distinct voice, while all in consensus. It was not an idea she could have grasped prior to drinking from the Well of Sorrows, just a mere day ago, and no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t articulate it well enough verbally for Morrigan to understand. She wanted to, for the elf had heard the waters crying out for the human mage before she drank, but Morrigan had neither heard, nor answered, so the voices had beckoned Ayania into the pool.

And become one with her.

She knew the truth: Wearing Mythal’s vallaslin on her face is not what had granted her this gift in the goddess’ temple. She had been chosen second.

She hid her tears behind a smile and opened her arms wide for her beloved Ambassador. “I shall return swiftly to you, mir nehn.” Had she not been so exhausted—dangerously so—last night, she would have saddled a horse then and rode through darkness to expedite the trip.

“Ar lath,” Josephine said, and Ayania hugged her tighter. She leaned back to taste her lover’s lower lip between her own, a kiss just as tender as it was quick.

Josephine took her hands, rubbing her brown thumb against Ayania’s sunburnt white skin. “The Arbor Wilds were not kind to you your last visit, and now you rush back.”

She would go by horse with a few select companions. It was too dangerous to try to use Morrigan’s eluvian to get back, then travel from the decimated temple to the Altar of Mythal. They had no idea where the Red Templars and Corypheus were, and assumed the enemy held a foothold there.

“I used a salve. Cole found me a sun hat, too.”

Josephine’s answering chuckle came out as a choked sob. “This vir’abel . . .”

“Vir’abelasan.”

“Vir’abelasan,” Josephine mimicked her accent perfectly. “The Well. It told you of this altar. Can we trust either artifact?”

“More than Corypheus. But I will be cautious.”

Josephine pulled her down into a desperate kiss, fingers tight around the back of her neck. “I will hold you to that, my love.”

“I want to help,” Cole appeared at her side, leading her mount. Well, not _her_ mount. Mako was still in the Arbor Wilds with Cullen and the bulk of their troops. This Fereldan Forder was called Rose, and Horsemaster Dennett had assured her that the gentle horse was as battle worthy as Mako.

“Thank you, Cole.” She took the reins.

He shifted awkwardly from foot to foot. She stretched out an arm and he stepped into her hug. Solid. Human. “You help a lot.”

He looked up and she followed his gaze. On the bridge between the rotunda and Cullen’s office, bald white head gleaming in the harsh winter sun, stood Solas, looking down, silent expression unreadable.

The voices bubbled up inside, but she didn’t listen to them. Now was the time for action, not thought. They’d already told her where to go.

She mounted and left the stables with Morrigan, Dorian, and Cassandra.

On the way to Skyhold’s gate, she saw a lone, still figure standing on the tavern roof. Sera had called her “a right shite” for drinking from the Well and Ayania thought it would take more than a day of baking together in the castle’s kitchen to mend that friendship. She sighed.

One more person she’d hurt. One more way she was a disappointment.

“We’re right behind you, my dear,” Dorian said. “Whatever you need.”

She hadn’t realized she’s stopped to stare. She nodded and spurred her horse on in the lead, setting a brisk pace the animal could keep up until they made camp.

Each day of the journey was very much the same: riding steadily from dawn to dusk, resting and watering their mounts frequently, the three humans riding with her almost as quiet and subdued as she was herself.

On the outside. Inside, the whispers got more excited the closer they came to the Altar of Mythal. Her already enormous worry expanded to fill her whole being: What if the goddess disapproved?

A life of rote prayers did not make up for the desecration of her holy well.

It was sunny and humid when the voices led her through a last stand of giant, leafy trees. Considering the clamor of voices within her, it was a rather innocuous place: A circular clearing surrounded by a tall wall of well-laid yellow stones, the top open to the clear blue skies of the heavens. A single small archway was the only entrance.

Outside, the only sounds were happy birdsong and a breeze through the leafy trees.

She hesitated at the threshold longer than she should have.

“We . . . we shall look after the horses?” Cassandra asked.

Ayania nodded and handed her Rose’s reins.

“I would like to see the Altar of Mythal,” Morrigan said. “I have studied much of her legend and may be useful.”

Dorian raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow in inquiry and Ayania nodded again. He took Morrigan’s reins and Morrigan followed her across the threshold into the heart of the clearing.

At the far end, atop a three-step dais, stood a proud, weathered statue, wings outstretched, the face an angled mask with no features. Vines bursting with bright pastel flowers covered the statue, steps, and walls. She was unfamiliar with the flowers of the Arbor wilds, but these reminded her very much of pansies she’d seen humans cultivate in stone gardens.

“‘Tis a strange place,” Morrigan said. “At least when compared to the temple. Rather simple, really. Reminds me of growing up . . . well, that place was more dry and brown than this one. The water dirty, too.”

“It’s home. This is where we worship.”

“You have been to this place before, Inquisitor?”

“No, never.”

She stepped up to the altar, stopping respectfully below the bottom step, where the green grass was surprisingly short considering the place looked abandoned for years.

Morrigan frowned. “The markings have weathered away. The opportunity is lost.”

“No, I can call her forth.” Ayania’s heart lurched, but she took a deep breath, ready to proceed. All it would take was a single word. A name.

“Summon Mythal? _If_ she ever existed, she is certainly gone now. More likely, you would summon another demon. Do not—”

“Mythal.”

Black mists eddied up from the grasses. From them walked a well-wrinkled white human in studded red leather armor, the backs of her gloves iron talons. Her steel crown framed her cheek bones and rose to a single horn above her forehead. The top half of her pure white hair was wrapped upward in red leather straps like four curved dragon’s horns.

“Well, well, what have we here?” Her voice was as old as her body. Perhaps older. Yet powerful.

The whispers were clear now. Like bells on a cold morning, or shouts in a field of wildflowers.

“Asha’bellanar,” Ayania fell to one knee on the ground and stayed there, head bowed. A simple genuflect would not be enough.

“ _Mother_ ,” Morrigan’s derision was quite clear. “So it seems we have summoned a demon after all.”

The other human laughed. “Demon? Is that what you believe? I am called many names. Flemeth will do.”

“Stand up and face her, Inquisitor! She is nothing but a witch who prolongs her unnaturally long life by stealing the bodies of her daughters.”

Morrigan raised her hands with the swirling blue magic of a stunning spell and shoved it at Flemeth. The waves cascaded around the other woman, not touching her.

“That is quite enough,” Flemeth said sternly. “Save your energies for dancing under the moonlight.”

“Arrgh,” Morrigan’s muted scream of frustration sent goosebumps up Ayania’s neck.

“Rise,” Flemeth said. “I would not have one of the People degraded so.”

Ayania stood up, heart pounding. She wasn’t sure what to ask first. The voices said Mythal could help her defeat Corypheus, but this was _Mythal_. No one in her clan—no Dalish ever—had been gifted with an opportunity such as this.

“ _How_?” Morrigan asked. “How can _you_ be Mythal? If you are—which I doubt—why did you not reveal yourself to the elves? Why skulk away, terrorizing humans with the bait of a little girl? Why keep a grimoire describing exactly how to subdue my body?”

“Doubt has always been my daughter’s answer for everything.” Flemeth shook her head. “A soul is not forced upon the unwilling, Morrigan. You were never in any danger from me.”

“Meaning I would _willingly_ agree to such a thing? What an absurd idea.”

Then Morrigan asked what should have been the elves’ question: “You cannot be her! You would have shown yourself to the elves. They are suffering!”

Ayania understood, but refrained from rolling her eyes. Without the Well, she, too, would have doubted.

Flemeth cocked her head. “You have eyes, girl. Do you see my ears? I appear shemlen. The People belong to me, but I do not belong to the People.

“And now I ask you about your own failings: What if Katherine Cousland had accepted your offer? Had you done as I asked and completed the ritual. Where would we be now?”

Morrigan let loose and exasperated sigh, hands flailing. “I do not know.”

Flemeth turned to Ayania. “Do you?”

“No one can know.”

“A wise answer.”

“Wise,” Morrigan huffed. “Wisdom is nowhere in this conversation. Banter with the witch all you like, Inquisitor. I will not waste my breath.” She strode off toward the exit, pausing at the threshold to look over her shoulder.

Her frown had changed, from anger to confusion. And was that . . . yearning? Morrigan opened her lips as if to speak, but clamped them tightly shut and exited the clearing.

The voices clamored inside Ayania, bounced around her body, toes, to elbows, to skull, clanging like angry, discordant bells. They wanted the human, not her. But they would do Mythal’s bidding, and were now as much Ayania as her own blood and marrow.

Why did it have to hurt like this? She needed someone who understood—Cole! He knew how to unravel complicated feelings.

To her utter surprise and delight, another swirling cloud of black mist billowed up in the center of the clearing and Cole stepped forth.

He took another step forward, but Flemeth waved him off. He bowed deeply and disappeared in another dark mist.

Ayania’s heart, so briefly flying, plummeted back to the ground again. She was on her own. Again. With powers she didn’t understand. Again. And an impossible mission with no survivable plan. Again.

“You need not be first to be beloved. You are mine and I am yours.”

“What, you can read my mind now? Is that what this power is?” She couldn’t control frustration and it came out sharp. But if her mind and body were not her own, then perhaps it was best for Mythal to smite her now, instead of taking this risk back to Josephine. Or risk the Inquisition. She’d closed the Breach and Cassandra could bloody well find someone else to destroy Corypheus.

“I can see your disappointment on your face. You are lost, as I once was, crying for justice in the cruel shadows of men. Before she found me.”

“Mythal?”

Flemeth nodded. “She is no separate from me now as your heart is from your chest. Or the voices are from your mind.”

“I understand.” Ayania sighed. “I guess . . . I’m not really angry. ‘Lost’ is the right word. I have been since I physically fell out of the Fade. Desperate for answers, I blindly followed when the voices led me here. I hoped you knew how to defeat the dragon of a darkspawn magister. He uses it to jump between blighted bodies and keep himself alive.” She flinched internally at the words. They were too similar to Morrigan’s body-snatching accusations against Flemeth, but the other mage did not seem to take offense.

“His is not a unique ritual. Slay his dragon, and you can slay him.”

“Yeah, I got that part. But how?”

Flemeth cackled. “ _Become_ the dragon.”

This was absolutely ridiculous. Should she laugh? Run? Try to punch the goddess? Wait until she told the Keeper that Mythal was insane.

“You understand,” Flemeth said.

“Do I?”

Flemeth tilted her head, as if listening to the sky. “My guardian approaches. You know what to do.”

“Do I?”

The whispers rose in her head. “All blood is magic. Bend it to your will.”

Flemeth crossed her arms across her chest, waiting. “Become the dragon.”

“You know I don’t have Morrigan’s shifting skill, right? Plus, I’ve never heard of _anyone_ taking a form that large . . .”

Flemeth just stood there, waiting.

Ayania closed her eyes, summoning a spark of fire in her palm. Warm, familiar. The voices were right: now that she looked for it, she could feel the magic flowing along her veins, feeding the flames in her hand. Magic big enough to power a massive animal.

“ _Become_ the dragon.” Flemeth said.

Fine. It’s not like it was the first crazy thing people had demanded she do.

It took less than a second to push her flesh into the form. It was like being bucked into the air by a horse and not coming down again. Her arms, spread to catch her fall, were wings spread wide, sharp talons instead of fingers. Head high above the wall, she surveyed the clearing and surrounding forest. Everything looked as it always did, only she could see further, smell more subtle scents, like the saddle oil from over where they left the horses.

It was a rush to be so tall, so powerful. She not only felt like she could defeat Corypheus’ dragon; she felt like she could defeat an entire _army_ of his dragons. Ayania laughed, a great rumble from her giant chest, stretching her neck up and snapping her teeth at the air.

She looked down to find the goddess standing at her feet, beaming up at her. “You are worthy.”

It wasn’t “I love you,” but it would do.

“Inquisitor! Where are you?!” Cassandra sped through the archway, sword drawn, shield ready, Dorian and Morrigan on her heels.

Flemeth laughed. “Look up, Seeker. It seems to me you have found the solution to your problem.” Black mists eddied up around her feet and she disappeared, just as another dragon’s roar reverberated over their heads.

The enormous horned beast, its shining scales yellow as gold, swooped down, crushing great holes in the earth when it landed. It was a full dragon’s head taller than Ayania, but she didn’t care. _She_ was more than the animal form she presented.

“Back off, bitch!” her shout came out a high-pitched shriek through her dragon teeth. The larger animal backed up a step, head tilted in confusion. Ayania summoned an ice spell, let a thin stream of it pass her dragon lips to draw a line in the grass between them. The other dragon cringed and shook a front foot, like a mabari who doesn’t want a bath. Ayania barred her teeth and the other dragon took to the sky, fleeing faster than the wind that brushed past the flowers on Mythal’s statue.

With another chuckle, Ayania drew her magic back inward, returning to her own form.

This time it was Cassandra who said, “Well, shit.”

Dorian laughed.

Morrigan sent Ayania a sideways look, took a cautious step back. “So, you are bound to her.”

“If I was going to kill you or try to possess you, Morrigan, I’d have accomplished it already.”

“That does not comfort me.”

“It wasn’t meant to.

“Come on, I’d give you all a ride, but we can’t leave the horses. Let’s ride home so I can show Josephine my new trick.”

**Author's Note:**

> [Elvish words](http://dragonage.wikia.com/wiki/Elven_Language) from the Dragon Age wiki:
> 
> Mir nehn: My joy.
> 
> Ar lath: I love you.
> 
> Vir'abelasan: "The place of the way of sorrows." Refers to the Well of Sorrows.
> 
> Asha'bellanar: "The Woman of Many Years." How the Dalish refer to Flemeth.


End file.
